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Monday, 23 March 2009

To Seville and Back

Written by Chad Jarrah
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A week ago, I was just as frustrated as any other chump annoyed by the weight of responsibility. Finishing one job just to rush to the next; paying one bill and another was already on its way. The monotony was beginning to take its toll. Food didn’t taste as good and Seinfeld wasn’t making me laugh as hard. It was definitely time for a vacation. So as a travel hippie at heart, it didn’t take more than a little opportunity and some extra cash to transform my trip from elaborate daydream to comforting reality.

A week ago, I was just as frustrated as any other chump annoyed by the weight of responsibility. Finishing one job just to rush to the next; paying one bill and another was already on its way. The monotony was beginning to take its toll. Food didn’t taste as good and Seinfeld wasn’t making me laugh as hard. It was definitely time for a vacation. To Seville and Back, Semana Santa, Seville Cathedral, Itálica, Spain, travel spain, travel seville, tapas, Calle Constitución, Chad JarrahSo as a travel hippie at heart, it didn’t take more than a little opportunity and some extra cash to transform my trip from elaborate daydream to comforting reality.

I had made a few friends from other trips over the course of the past four years. One in particular was Harry, a Brit I met while I studied abroad in Costa Rica. We shared the same laid-back demeanor, the same taste in women and the same off-beat sense of humor – it was only natural that we got along. We had kept in touch periodically and since then Harry had been teaching English in Seville, Spain.

“Damn you!” I regularly cursed him out of pure jealousy as he described his new lifestyle in the European nation.

“It’s such a beautiful place to live, the weather is perfect and the girls are amazing.”

“C’mon Harry, don’t rub it in. I don’t need to hear this.” He knew of my weakness for Spanish women and I hated him for it. God, I wished I was there.

We’d speak for a little more before our conversation ended, always in the same way. “You should come up,” Harry would say, “I could get you a place to stay for free.”


“I don’t know,” I’d answer already knowing the limited probability of a trip. “We’ll see.”

It was never that I didn’t want to go. There were just so many ‘how’s’ getting in the way. How would I get the money for a trip? How would I get enough time off to enjoy myself? How could I possibly go to this paradise and force myself to come back?

The first how was answered with a favorable income tax return. Yessss! Although I could have been more conservative with my newfound money, I was in no frame of mind to care about an extra mortgage payment or a lifetime supply of khaki pants. My travel itch was turning into a full-blown rash.

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Last modified on Sunday, 16 December 2012

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